


The Mortality of Man

by Hnybnny



Series: Mors Renascentia [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Creation Myth, Gen, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pantheon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 05:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12382206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hnybnny/pseuds/Hnybnny
Summary: What came before the Vakil is not known, as before the Vakil there was nothing, as the Vakil were all and are all. Once there was nothing, and at once there were seven- the Vakil. Seven siblings and seven divine watchers of the celestial pantheon who we owe our lives and our livelihood. Six siblings who brought us life, and the one who took it away.





	The Mortality of Man

What came before the _Vakil_ is not known, as before the Vakil there was nothing, as the Vakil were all and are all. Once there was nothing, and at once there were seven- the Vakil. Seven siblings and seven divine watchers of the celestial pantheon who we owe our lives and our livelihood. Martivir, the All-Mother who taught and watched, and guided righteous souls to victory. Narhethi, the All-Father who guided and protected, and whispered tranquility into mortal hearts. Oium, the artificer who spun the skies at her loom in glorious shades of life-threads. Tairais, the architect who molded the land and dug out the seas with his weathered hands.  Itov, the holder of love-struck hearts and matron of grace. Irthir, the prodder of minds and patron of curiosity. Vehafor, the ender of life and judger of souls.

At the dawn of creation, the Vakil proved their worth in a test of might against each other. Each bickered for a long time as they lingered in the nothingness that was the Void, for there was naught else to do. For Something to exist, there must first be Nothing. The Nothing was empty, and the divines grew bored, so eventually they proposed a contest- a game of creation to see which of the seven could be considered the most powerful.

After a moment of pondering, the middle brother Tairais was the first to make an attempt. With his sickle he carved his flesh of his torso, leaving an empty cavern of his chest. With his heart at the center, he molded the muscle into a sphere, his rough hands leaving dents and abrasions on the malleable surface. With his drying breath it hardened, tissue hardening into to rock and skin into earth, blood purifying into liquid water that filled the depressions. The ridges left by his fingerprints became hills and mountain ranges, his shards bone becoming precious gems deep beneath the surface. With the planet in his hands, Tairais triumphantly presented it to his siblings.

“It is quite ugly,” said Itov. “Is that all you could come up with?” said Irthir. “It needs more color,” said Oium. “I could do much better,” said Martivir. “I did not need to see that,” said Narhethi. Vehafor did not speak.

Oium with her head held high tried next, pulling stray threads from her skirt and weaving the ethereal threads carefully among the frame of the planet Tairais had created. It was not enough, so she plucked threads of many colors from each of her siblings’ garments, entwining the hues of blue with shades of white and yellow, lit with the light from her bright eyes. But it was not enough. She dimmed the weaving, bringing in pinks and purples and oranges and colors of such beauty that mortals have no name for them, finishing it with a seemingly infinite filament from the void itself, a deepest black lit only by Oium. She draped it carefully around Tairais’s creation, connecting the ends and presenting the sky to her siblings.

“An improvement, but still an eye-sore,” said Itov. “Could you not make something your own?” said Irthir. “You did a terrible job, I can see through the little holes,” said Martivir. “You ruined my tunic,” said Narhethi. “I thought my creation was just fine as it is,” said Tairais. Vehafor did not speak.

Itov stepped forward and with her soft breath and gentle touch coated the land in life, lush grasses and blooming flowers, towering trees and supple fruits. Irthir was not far behind, thinking up creatures and beings, plotting their features and instincts, that he populated the planet with in a few simple words. Beasts walked the earth, swam the seas, and took flight in the air, each living on what his siblings had created before, feasting on the land. Irthir’s smug look was then replaced on his face by jealous Itov’s fist.

 “The noise they make is insufferable,” said Oium. “Do they do anything else except eat?” said Tairais. “These creatures are too dull,” said Martivir. “It is still missing something,” said Narhethi. Vehafor did not speak.

Martivir and Narhethi, closer to each other in spirit than any of their other siblings, populated the thriving rock. They created the mortal races, giving each a basic humanoid shaped based off their own, but then altering it from there to fit the landscape. Narhethi called those of sturdy might but a quick mind the _humans_ , and those with lithe bodies, pointed ears, and agile gait the _elves_. Martivir named those of short stature and weathered hands as _dwarves_ , and those with slick skin and webbed appendages the _mer_. These species are what began sentient life on the planet, and as they explored and lived and built, the duo motioned triumphantly at their siblings.

Oium did not speak. Itov did not speak. Irthir did not speak. Tairais did not speak. The siblings were silent, in quiet awe. But Vehafor did speak, shaking her head softly. “You created miniatures of us, nothing more.”

With a flick of her hand, the golem-like beings began to decay as the siblings watched in surprise. Their bodies sagged and frayed, forms hunched and gait slowed as time passed. The mer went first, sinking to the bottom of their oceans as fish nibbled their remains. Then the humans, falling to the grass where they had once stood. Then the dwarves, bodies fossilizing like the rock they called home. Then the elves, decaying to serve as nutrients to the forests they walked among. Vehafor whispered softly to the spirits that hovered above each body in words unknown; then, one by one, many of the spirits began to return to their bodies. Some souls went two to a body, while other forms were left abandoned. With the gift of life now fragile, the beings were forced to discover how to survive and sustain, to breed and birth, to _live_.

The other six deities asked Vehafor what she had done, amused by her parlor trick.

“I killed them. I taught them of death, so that they could find meaning in the existence you created. I gave them purpose. In a way, I gave them life.”

And thus, the mortal races were established, and the contest of creation finished. Each sibling claimed victory to their own, each saying the other’s attempt could not be had without theirs in turn. Their quarreling dimmed, however, as they turned to the world they had made and saw potential. Tairais gave the tools to survive and build, to live off the land. Oium gave the winds of which to ride, to explore and to travel and to weather. Itov gave the tugging between two hearts, gave the need for love and kinship. Irthir gave the spark of light within the mind, to spur invention and progress. Together, Narhethi and Martivir gave words, language and trade and connections between the mortal races spawning like a spider’s web across the now-lively land. With this, the people worshipped. With eyes wide to their makers, they built temples and shrines, made sacrifice and sang hymns to the six who gave them life- and feared the sister who had seemingly taken it all away, revoked their immortality like that of a cruel parent with a child’s toy. Vehafor watched this all, silent, and chronicled the tale of man unseen. But when the creations of her siblings wasted away, forgotten, she was there to breathe their legacies into the ears of those who cared to listen, cared to write them down and preserve the memories of the past. Many do not recognize the purpose she gave in return for our everlasting forms- for who are you, who do not know your history?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a school assignment, a creation myth for my Comparative Mythology class in which I began to write out the mythos regarding my original character, the Goddess of Death-turned-Creator Vehafor. I cut out at a lot because of word count (didn't want to go way over the minimum), and will flesh this out at a later point until a fully done mythos.


End file.
